by Anne Eliot
I reply: LOL. Let’s hope by Saturday morning we will both be able to admit that we were having a temporary bout of insanity. I’ll buy the box of chocolate frosted Timbits that will wash the rest of this madness away! Deal?
My phone buzzes again, lighting up against my hand. I glance down, already typing GTG, but just as I push open the locker room door I realize I’m in a new text feed that’s completely empty of any other conversations. The only word typed here is one simple: Hey.
I gulp out, “Holy-Cam-Campbell!”
The door slams me back into the dark locker room.
Heart closing up my throat, I read the name I’d entered earlier into my contacts at the top of my screen again and again: Cam Campbell. Cam Campbell. Cam Campbell!
Then, as though I’ve become paralyzed, I re-read that one word two hundred times: Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey.
*Wonders: When a guy says ‘hey’ what are they really saying?*
A second text quickly follows the first: Hey?
Studying the two texts as a set, I try to simulate his voice in my mind in an attempt to decipher what he means.
First, I go with the rumbly, goose bump-sexy version of his voice: Hey. Hey?
Ahh! That makes my cheeks burn.
Next, I try his chatty-friendly voice with a twinge of laughter next: Hey. Hey?
Also makes my cheeks burn and my throat close up a bunch more.
Shaking my head, I try to tone down my reaction and go a third round by trying his regular quiet, serious-low voice: Hey. Hey?
And my cheeks catch fire.
I rest my forehead against the door and wonder if I should text him back.
But what? What should I say? Is it really lame if I just type ‘hey’ back?
Is ‘hey’ plus a smiley face too much or too little or just too stupid and cliché?
After the photographs I’ve just seen, one tiny smiling face has to be way too little. I wonder if he knows that Miss Brown sent his shots home with me.
I gulp again, full panic setting in now as I’m wondering if Miss Brown sent my shots home with him! If so, he knows already I’m just a fraud compared to him. A girl who wishes to be tons of things but is actually only just a beginner. I turn around and let the door hold me up as I stare down at my phone, clutching it with both hands, holding my good thumb poised to type words while I scan my brain for any fleeting signs of witty intelligence that I might be able to fire out.
Luckily, three little iPhone dots pulse to the left, signaling that he’s going to text something else!
“Okay. Okay.” My whisper sounds like a prayer. “Be calm. He’s typing something more. Good. Good.” My breathing gets all choked and ragged so I decide to stop doing it all together, choosing to hold my breath and wait. And wait. And wait.
*Damns the dots for flashing like that and for taking so long.*
And then…they’re gone. He’s stopped typing or deleted what he’d started. I sigh, pulling in a long breath as my screen goes black because I’ve waited too long.
*Damns herself for waiting too long.*
I suppose it’s only fair. He’s sent two texts, after all and I’m the one in full chicken mode. But, after today, after how I feel right now, after knowing how talented I think—I hope, I hope, I hope that he is—how will I ever find the courage to text him back?
And forget texting. What will I say to him when I see him in class tomorrow?
The phone buzzes and lights up again. My heart races to my chest, then I start laughing because it’s Patrick: Ellen. Have I mentioned how much I love you? Don’t be all jealous about me and Laura, okay? You know where we stand. Forever. And always and all that.
I grin, shaking my head at my crazy friend: I love you more, Patrick. Zero jealousy, you nut!
Patrick: Good. Good. ;)
I laugh again and a fist bangs the door right on the other side of my head, scaring me half to death.
“Ellen,” Nash calls out. “I’m losing patience. Let’s go.”
cam
“Did you feed the dog?” Mom asks, picking up our tiny white Bichon named Coco “Because she looks like she’s starving.”
“I fed her,” I answer, forcing a smile. “She’s lying to you.”
“We shall just have to find her a little dessert treat, then.” Mom puts Coco down and wanders into the pantry with Coco in hot pursuit. I stare back at my texts, wondering what went wrong.
I opened with the classic and very safe: Hey.
Ellen should have typed me back the same.
But when she didn’t respond at all, I couldn’t wait, so I followed up with the extra-subtle and un-brilliant plus very insecure and weak: Hey?
Why did she not write me back?
Why? Why?
My head’s been so full of messed up hopes and ideas about Ellen Foster all afternoon that now, when faced with finally texting for a real reason—as in homework—I’m back to choking! It’s because I’m trying too hard. I know my next text to Ellen has to be cool. Subtle. Not over thought. Just right. This is because I’ve already ruined everything by starting in with the genius openers that got me no response.
I can only imagine her gorgeous, sparkling black eyes staring at my stupid, hey, hey right now! I also know she knows I’ve got an iPhone so, unless her phone is turned off or she’s lost charge, she totally just saw me type and delete stuff for the last five minutes!
I sigh, wondering what is wrong with me. I bet girls never agonize about texts like this. I lean one fist against my chin and hook my feet over the bottom rung on the bar stool pulled up to our kitchen’s high counter. It’s shaped like the letter ‘L’. I love sitting on the side that overlooks the wall of windows that face the lake, but today the moon reflecting off the lake is no distraction. I turn away to face the butcher block island area and watch Mom give Coco these homemade Tasty Chicken Dog Treats she buys off a kid in our neighborhood who makes them to raise money for the dog shelter.
“Not too many, Mom. The vet said now that she’s over a year old we can’t.”
“Fine, but she still acts like a puppy.” Mom scoops up Coco, plants a kiss above her cute black nose and deposits the ten pound ball of all-white wiggle-wag onto my lap.
I sneak Coco, who’s really my dog more than my parents’ dog, a treat while Mom opens the Chinese take-out our maid brought in from Sarnia, one town over. We eat carry-out dinner from this place at least three times a week, sometimes more. This is because my practice is usually not over until around seven and Mom, who’s the regional store coordinator for the six CanYA clothing stores at malls between here and Toronto—about 3 hours from here—is often not home until after seven also. We try to wait for each other so we can open the boxes together. Tonight I’ve already finished all my homework and we’re cracking open the boxes close to nine and I’m about to die from starvation.
And texting. Or should I call it trying to text.
Putting Coco down, I grab my phone and try again. But fingers automatically go with a third: Hey!
I glance down at Coco and make a face, because I could swear the dog is mocking me.
If Mom weren’t right here, I’d smack my own head as hard as possible right now. The dog should mock me. I deserve it! As if adding an exclamation point should really impress her with my deep-deep thoughts. Hey. Hey? And: HEY!
Who wouldn’t want to hang out tons with this kind of excellent witty banter? I delete that third ‘hey’ without hitting send, and try starting with her name: Ellen…
My stomach flips and twists, just staring at those perfect letters sitting on my phone.
I go on, trying the tactic of typing whatever pops into my head to see if it comes out better than me over thinking everything: Ellen…so…just wanted to see if this number works so I can add you to my
contacts.
I quickly veto and delete the whole line. I added her to my contacts hours ago. I can’t start our texting-future relationship off with a lie!
At least my hey-hey was genuine, right?
“Oh great.” This time I do smack my own forehead.
“Cam, honey. Talk to me. You know the dinner rules. What are you doing with that phone?”
“Nothing important, just school work—type—communicating.” I don’t look up in case she reads any panic in my eyes, hoping my cracking voice didn’t just give her the hint that what I’m doing right now might be the most important thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.
I move to distract her with some pointless arguing. “Besides, we aren’t eating yet. So I’m not breaking any dinner rules. And this is about…homework for this group project thing. It’s got to be sent because it’s sort of a now or never situation.” I mutter on to myself, “Or…I’m going to be ranked as a complete failure for life and forever.”
“Failure? What? Homework does come first. I’ll bend the rules for your grades, but only for one more minute.” Mom takes my empty plate along with hers and perches at the end of the counter near her own stool, waiting. “Go on, Cam. Get it done. I’m so hungry.”
“Okay.. Give me a second.” With Mom staring me down and my stomach flipping double, I decide to just say everything: Ellen, you get home okay after going to the nurse? Hope you’re not sick. Ireland and I spoke to Miss Brown about the project. We know all. Can’t wait. Went through your tree branches and leaves shots that Miss Brown gave me. You’re—the shots—so amazing. Beautiful work. Hope you liked my stuff also? I know the football thing seems monotonous, but if you line them up side-by-side, you can see the light and some patterns, textures…other things I’m trying to master. I mean, hopefully you can see that. IDK. Maybe.
I think Miss Brown is right. Together we can work through this project and make the frozen trees amazing. YOUR frozen trees project, I mean. Laura and I both get that. Won’t try to alter any of your plans—just help you execute. Miss Brown says we need to come up with a calendar that works so we can get the pulleys and ropes set before the first frost. Totally possible we can finish that over the long weekend coming up. Then we can watch for the weather and hope for the right kind of storm, or two? As long as it freezes, we should be done in time to turn it all in by the December 10th deadline. Well…I think it’s a perfectly awesome project idea. Perfect. Like you. So…see you at the bus tomorrow?
I quickly delete the words like you, because I know that was way out of line.
I just wanted to see what it would look like all typed out.
See if it would make my stomach flip worse than her name.
And it did.
Feeling my face growing slightly hot, I lock gazes with my mom while I tap send, and pocket the phone before grabbing the plate and filling it with Mongolian Beef, Sweet and Sour Chicken and a nice pile of Veggie Fried Rice, acting like I don’t even care about that text.
I see Mom scanning my face out of the corner of my eye. Unlike with my dad, it’s pretty hard for me to hide my emotions from her because she and I are so similar. “That was a long text,” she says finally.
I’m pretending picking red pepper bits out of my rice is the most riveting thing I’ve ever done. “Uh…well…yeah, had to be clear.” I grab a few fortune cookies and toss them onto the other counter so I can get to them later without standing again and finally meet her gaze. “I got stuck working with two girls. You know how they are. All needy for details and extra long sentences. If I don’t explain every little thing, I’ll have to keep texting them back hundreds of times.”
Mom laughs. “Funny. But true.” She sets two packets of soy sauce on the edge of my plate. My heart’s thumping so loudly I wonder if Mom can hear it. I’m having a major panic attack, wondering if my last deletion really went through. I hate the part where I get all impulsive and blurt out stuff sometimes. I’m dying to check my phone so badly right now I can hardly chew.
Please let that phrase be deleted. Please.
“How was practice?” Mom scoots even closer to grab some lettuce for her Chicken Wraps. What Mom’s really asking me is: How much of a jerk was your dad today?
I slide back onto my bar stool, evading her direct gaze again and watch Coco curl up at my feet like she always does. Every night is a dance where I’m forced to answer my parents’ questions very carefully. I’m always trying to diffuse tension between my mom and dad. Unfortunately, since I am the singular topic they choose to discuss, my chances of not being the focus of the inevitable, daily arguments that spike between them can be nearly impossible. This is why, even if my dad’s been an epic ass—which he usually has been—I hardly ever mention it.
I often wonder how it would be if I had siblings. Would things be better in this house? Would they help me with this situation? Or would those kids now be just as messed up as I am from all the quality parenting and happy marriage examples going on here? I figure more kids would simply give my mom and dad more reasons to fight.
I shovel in a full bite and talk with my mouth full so I don’t have to say too much. “Same old same old. All okay.”
“Well…that’s good. Another big game coming up this weekend, right?”
“Sunday. Because of the three day weekend, remember?” Swallowing my food, I reach to feel my phone inside my pocket. “Was that a buzz? Did you hear that? Or is that your phone?”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Mom glances around. When she wanders off to grab a glass of water, I risk checking my phone.
It shows my messages as delivered and read! I breathe a sigh of relief because all deletions have been deleted.
Come on, Ellen Foster, text me back…
I pause and read over what I sent, but instead of feeling good about it, each word feels like a weight making my heart heavier and heavier. What was I thinking with this long babble text? No wonder the girl won’t text a reply. I went from ‘hey-hey-I’m a monotonous fool’ all the way to: ‘Ellen look, I’m an awkward novelist.’ Crap. Why do I always have to be me?
Quickly I add another text—a normal sized one—just in case I can convince her into finally writing me back: Don’t forget to wear your new beanie tomorrow. Ireland’s counting on us. Okay?
I watch it deliver, but still she does not respond. I imagine her in a place where she’s not allowed to text. Or…possibly her battery’s dead. Or…again maybe she just hates me after all that went down today and doesn’t want to ever text me back. Because we both have iPhones, I stare at the spot where her reply should come in, longer and longer, hating that I can’t look away.
Come on. Come on…come on…please…
“Cam. I see you with that phone out.”
I shove the phone onto the table. “Sorry. I just…” I look up to catch her eye and shoot for a half-truth. “I met this new girl today…and…”
Mom takes the bait. “New girl as in, new, possible girlfriend kind of girl?” Her brows shoot up.
I have to hide a smile. My mom’s so easy to deflect. “No, Mom. New as in new to the school. She’s sort of an exchange student only she’s living with an aunt and uncle nearby. She’s Irish with slightly crazy fashion but extra hilarious because her accent is really cute.”
“Is it, now?” Mom smiles knowingly.
“Yep. Her name is Laura London.” I drop my voice to extra casual. “She and I have both been assigned to Ellen Foster’s digi-photo project. I need to text this new girl the details—if and when—Ellen Foster texts me back first. See? It’s a chain reaction thing.”
She raises her brows and puts down her fork. “Ellen Foster? What does it mean that you’ve been assigned to her project?”
“The teacher grouped us together so we could enter some fancy contest. Apparently Ellen’s got the conce
pt all worked out—took her months—but she needs help to execute it because it involves all this equipment and the final shoot is going to happen after the first big freeze. I’m trying to get her schedule pinned down around football before Dad goes all ape. We’re still working on details. It’s half the semester grade plus my 100 hours of community service. It’s to be down at one of the willow groves. The one nearest our house actually. I’ll be helping plan shots, setting up and moving equipment around, that kind of stuff, so.” I shrug, like I don’t care at all. “Could be entertaining, especially because the Irish girl is beyond entertaining all by herself. You’ll have to meet her.”
“I’d like to but…humph…too bad you have to work with that Ellen Foster girl…she gets under my skin. She and her mom assume a lot. She’s not even a club member, yet she chose our private club property as the location to stage her project? So presumptuous.”
“Our project, Mom. It’s mine now, too. And that location is going to make things easy for me because I won’t have to drive far to deal with it.”
Mom grimaces. “Of course the poor little thing will need help with climbing trees and such, but why does she even want to photograph things on ice? Isn’t that going to be dangerous for her?”
“She—we—are doing a cool photo experiment.” I wrack my brain, trying to remember the exact words Ellen used in her proposal to Miss Brown for the WOA project. “That is what’s going to make it so awesome. The humidity in the air plus the wave surges from any storm is the whole project. We want to take photos of how the ice forms over things. It’s going to be cool.”
“When she was a kid, she couldn’t go near the beach. Fell all over the place even with crutches. Is she still doing that a lot? Falling?”
